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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25103122">A Space Oddity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pourpl/pseuds/pourpl'>pourpl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Space, Class Issues, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Existential Angst, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Future, Politics, Rating May Change, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Keith (Voltron), i dont know anything about science im so sorry, way in over my head with this one</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:42:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,947</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25103122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pourpl/pseuds/pourpl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance is my copilot, the only other sentient thing for millions of kilometers, and my last breath of Earth. And as much as I tried to deny it, his skin is painted in the scorched sand of the desert, his hands are a parcel of the human condition, and his eyes hold the blue of the ocean I miss.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Space Oddity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>well hello there. </p><p>this is awkward. i haven't posted on here in so fucking long, and when i come back it's not to update any of the 12 fics i already started, it's too start a new one. i am sorry. i am still suffering over klance though (which is sad at this point) so let me have this. </p><p>i started writing this after watching a documentary about the future of comet technology, reading Satellite by Nick Lake, and watching a dumb space movie and i said goddammit, i can do better! this is also my first fic in 1st person in......YEaRs which i'm not sure how i feel about? it's super weird for kl fanfics i know, but something about it just felt right for this one. it's pretty existential and introspective, so i wanted it to feel personal like that. maybe i'm just crazy though</p><p>this one's gonna be emotional, dramatic, and a lil nsfw. </p><p>fyi, keith and lance are both in their 20s here, so there's nothing underage and everything is enthusiastically consensual! this is my first time writing smut (that will come later and i will give a warning) and i'm not sure how i feel about it. i have really been hesitant to cross into this territory because i want to 1) do it in a way that is tasteful and 2) do it in a way that is practical. the last thing i want to do is fetishize mlm, and even though i'm queer that doesn't absolve me from messing up and perpetuating harmful tropes/rhetoric. i decided to write it this way because i wanted to push myself narratively and i think it fits within the story i wanted to create well. if you want to talk to me about this, let me know! i would love to hear your thoughts about ways i can do better as a writer and as a person! </p><p>last thing: this takes place sometime in the near future, there is going to be class conflict because i'm a commie this is what i want to write get off my ass. i tried to do some research to make it as accurate as i can for it to be not entirely out of my ass, but if you know shit about molecular biology/space/astrophysics/etc this is probably going to be painful for you. i'm sorry in advance, and the more i learn, i might go back to change some things. that is because i post before i'm finished writing shit like an idiot and never get anything done because of it. but i'm just excited, and i think this story is going to be well fleshed out and hopefully interesting. i'm getting rlly invested in the emotional arcs so fingers crossed that i follow through!</p><p>aaaaand that's it! i'm assuming no one read this but if you did i care for you and i hope you are doing well in these trying times. if you haven't already, check out blacklivesmatters.carrd.co for some really important resources for education, activism, etc. let's defund the police already, okay?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When the fluorescent lights flash on and cut through the somber darkness, I don’t even blink. I have been staring at the digital clock on the wall count up for three hours now. I could have gotten up and done something, but something magnetized my back to the stiff cot of my confinement. It wasn’t even my fatigue. Last night I had retreated to bed early, perching in the space between the blinds and the window and watching the nothingness of space until my eyelids weighed more than my will to stargaze. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After being in space for five months, it’s hardly stargazing. I got sick of the view two months in. No, when I look out the window for hours it’s more for the purpose of having something to look at when I want to think. Staring at the floor doesn’t help, because it’s sterile and white like a medical facility. So I watch the infinite stars from an oxygenated bedroom for scalpels and IV tubes while I ruminate. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about last night. Sometimes I don’t really try to pick a topic to think about. Sometimes it’s easier just to let my mind wander. But most of the time, it’s worse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe that’s why I was stuck to my bed since 03:14:00. A storage unit in the back of my brain is still dwelling on the dark place I don’t remember going to last night and paralyzing me out of petrification. I don’t feel afraid though. Maybe a bit queasy and warm, but not afraid. The feeling reminds me of our first few days latched to P/2158 when I spent a week with my head bent over the toilet. I get out of bed and send a prayer to the Man Upstairs that I’m not getting another wave of that again. Harvest date is coming soon, and neither of us can afford to be sick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(I wonder if it’s considered the Man Upstairs if we’re in space.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(I decide I don’t care because God doesn’t exist.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“G’morning,” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lance is already in the kitchen when I stumble in. His hair is consolidated in a staticy tuft on the top of his head. A few pieces curl around his ears. He’s hugging himself in a blanket while he sips out of a small mug of hot chocolate, presumably  I nod at him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How can you drink that stuff?” He’s waving a flippant hand at my pot of black coffee. I hesitate a second because he usually doesn’t ask me questions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I need the caffeine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks like he wants to say something else but instead he fidgets with his cufflet, twirling it around his wrist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I dislodge a rice pudding cup from the cupboard and eat it like I’m starving, though I could be eating a piece of soggy shrapnel and I wouldn’t even realize at this point. I lost my sense of taste months ago. Still, I’m hungry, and sustenance is sustenance. If I eat it fast enough, I can take a longer shower before we go out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We sit in silence while Lance reads a paperback book and I read the overnight diagnostics. I don’t even know how he has one of those things, but I don’t ask him because it’s not nearly important enough to actually waste the breath. Everything looks normal except for a crack in the left quadrant of the comet. I’ll seal it when I finish my shower.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“All good?” Lance asks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod again. “Fissure in Section 2, but I’ll deal with it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods back, and I walk back to my room without another word. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t mind only sharing a few words with him. I don’t mind that our conversations are kept in the line of business and rarely strays. I don’t usually enjoy the conversations we have. But I have a feeling that Lance isn’t as quiet as he tries to be around me. I can tell from the beginning of our time together that he would rather we talk. But after we fought every day and hated each other’s guts for two months, he reigned in his pungent personality for the comfort of myself and any semblance of tranquility we had left. We both realized rather quickly that there was no use in fighting, because doors don’t slam out here. Being angry leaves you with nothing. Being reticent gives you civility. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lance is my copilot, the only other sentient thing for millions of kilometers, and my last breath of Earth. And as much as I tried to deny it, his skin is painted in the scorched sand of the desert, his hands are a parcel of the human condition, and his eyes hold the blue of the ocean I miss.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time I exit the shower and slip on my bodysuit, Lance is already gone. I peek out the window by the left bay to find him floating next to the bow of the comet, heating it with a hydrogen torch. Competition and spite stings in my mouth, even if I know he doesn’t deliberately try to one up me anymore. The fact that he’s already out there doing the job that I said I would do ten minutes ago feels like a taunt and a tease, an outdated game for </span>
  <em>
    <span>ten year olds</span>
  </em>
  <span>, let alone astrophysicists. Whatever. There’s always more to be done. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>A yawn pulls at my jaw as I’m fitting on the extravehicular suit. I don’t remember what it’s like to be well rested, and I don’t think it’s even possible out here. No amount of artificial blue light fluorescence can replicate the rising and setting of a sun. Am I doomed to be lulled to exhaustion by the perpetuity of the inky sky? I figure as much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then I’m pushing out the door and suddenly I become another piece of debris exposed to the embrace of the universe, a pixel on a canvas, a granule of sand in a beach that stretches forever. It used to leave me with a despoiled gut and the unshakably terrifying feeling of total vulnerability, but like everything else, it became protocol. It became a part of my routine, just as a salesperson becomes numb to the acrimony of customers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I do glance around however, scanning for any shards of asteroids or approaching showers. We can usually detect these things before they become a threat, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel inclined to skim my surroundings. They say the universe is expanding, but I don’t think we’ll ever truly know. How can you if it’s already so big? Where does it go? Who reaps the benefits of an ever growing universe that is already incomprehensibly gigantic? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Lance’s voice comes through the com while I approach him rapidly, activating my jets with a pointed selection of my eyes to the top left of my viewpoint. “There you are.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t see his expression too clearly through the plexiglass of his helmet, but I know exactly what it looks like. It’s the same face Shiro gave me when I told him I wanted a motorcycle, or the one a science partner gives you when you tell them you’ll start the project the night before the due date. Lance and I used to get into plenty of fights over the jetpacks and their necessitude. He said it was “dumb to use them” because “we’re only going like 10 yards out from the ship” and we should “conserve the fuel for an emergency” and I told him that he was “dumb for saying that” and it took “way too long to move without them” and he called me “lazy” and I called him “boring” and he pulled my pigtails so I stole his lunch money. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For some reason Lance always brings out the immaturity in me. He’s stuck in college and according to him I have “the psyche of a 65 year old grandfather”, at least without his instigation. But he would never say any of that now, and neither would I. He merely gives me looks and I ignore those looks.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I told you I would seal the fissure.” I say without bite. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lance shrugs and turns back towards the asteroid. “You took a long shower.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wonder why I always feel like I’m fighting him for something. I did take a long shower. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I only stare at him for a few seconds longer before I unsheath my chisel and get to work. Our task is extremely simple: chip away at P/2158 and deconstruct the sediment so we can extract what ComTech wants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When ComTech was born, what they wanted was simple: the expansion of space exploration. Their main objective was to break the water into its parts--hydrogen and oxygen--and use that as more efficient tempered propellent. But when the Earth starts running out of drinking water and the people at the bottom riots against those hoarding it at the top, who better to solve the crisis than a corporation? ComTech already had hundreds of comet occupations like ours. All they had to do was send out a memo: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Remember that photovoltaic electrolysis we told y’all to do? Yeah cut that shit out.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And poof. ComTech was now the world’s primary supplier of potables. No one complained much. The people were happy because there was enough water to keep them alive. The governments were happy because they didn’t have to lift a finger. ComTech was happy because CEO Ellie Riggs surpassed the late Jeff Bezos’ fortune to become the richest person to ever live. The other rich people slowly backed away into the shadows of obscurity as if they were never complicit. And the Nauts couldn’t possibly be mad because their job just got 10x easier for </span>
  <em>
    <span>double</span>
  </em>
  <span> the pay. No more thermal decomposition, no more membrane reactors, no more photocatalysis. They never had to recycle a reagent or so much as look at a nanoparticle again--because all they did was send the water back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No industrially practical version of water splitting has ever been demonstrated. To me, at least at the beginning, ComTech seemed like they were planning on solving this, hoping to underpin a hydrogen economy. This would revolutionize the way that we fuel our planet and upend the need for the carbon that was killing it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And sure, it was a bummer when I discovered that ComTech didn’t care about a hydrogen economy and was solely focused on nano-aluminum fuel. But it was fine. I didn’t mind working on a comet for the sake of fueling rockets when they reached the Ort. It wouldn't be the first time I worked at a gas station. And I would still be working on a comet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t until our assignment changed that I started to see that as a red flag. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not like I ever trusted a corporation to advocate for anything except its bottom line. But I saw spearheading an environmental fuel system as economical. Surely they would see that too. Surely they would stop focusing on rockets, when it was popular to brag about sustainability. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The breadth of my naivety was only revealed to me when there was nothing I could do about it. I had a bachelors in Inorganic Chemistry, a masters in Astrophysics, and a PhD in Polymer Science, and suddenly I was a mailman FedExing water to a place 293,931,268,659 miles from here. A place I wouldn’t get to go back to for the next 5 years.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lance had snickered at that description. “That would be a hefty packing fee.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When we first heard the news, we were both relieved. One of the main sources of tension between Lance and I was the water splitting. Breaking a covalent bond to successfully reuse the byproducts was hard—even with fairly basic compounds like water. It requires patience and diligence, as well as intense focus. None of those words were in Lance’s vocabulary. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Each comet had to be occupied with Nauts trained in CAMP (Chemistry, Astrophysics, Medicine, and Piloting) under NASA regulations. Whether those skills were encompassed by two Nauts or seven––that was up to the private companies. But between all of them, they would have to check off all of those boxes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>P/2158 was one of ComTech’s first missions with only two Nauts. Before, like most other organizations, they would have one chemist, one astrophysicist, one doctor and one pilot. On many occasions, especially at the companies conception, they would have at least two chemists or more in order to streamline the splitting. But as the company grew, the call for increased efficiency did as well. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This put well-rounded candidates like Lance and myself at high demand. Our interviews were short, our ComTech training was limited, and our deployment was prompt. While we both had psychological evaluations, ComTech didn’t spend much time worrying about the interpersonal liaison between their Nauts. We were too valuable on our own, and we balanced each other out advantageously. I covered the C and the A, and Lance went to school to be a pediatric surgeon before joining NASA as a rocket/drone pilot. In terms of policy and regulations, we made up for each other’s deficiencies. In terms of personhood, it was a different story. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While I’m chipping away at the comet, I notice out of my peripheral that Lance has finished mending the fissure and is sort of just floating next to it, limply. I feel my nose scrunch up, willing myself not to say anything, referring to my brain to air my grievances. He shouldn’t just be sitting there, doing nothing, wasting oxygen and straining his body with purposeless extravehicular station. He is so eager to shit on me with his eyes regarding my use of the propellant, yet he feels entitled to spend time doing absolutely nothing? At least my waste was trying to be efficient, not bred out of laziness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once a few large chunks break off, I resolve that I would be better off not rolling my eyes too far back into my head so I can grab the pieces. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This entails netting that deploys out of my suit at the press of a button on my right hip. As the pieces of comet begin to float away, the netting reins it back in while filtering out pieces to tiny to be helpful. After a minute or so, I feel satisfied with the capacity filled, and I grab the net with my right hand, refusing to acknowledge Lance as I pull the bag behind me while catapulting myself with propellant to the main hatch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know Lance is following me only because the static in my com softens. If I try hard enough, I can pretend I’m alone out here. I won’t try, though, because as blissful as it may sound, the mere idea in my head feels cold. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I get the latch unlocked and pull the door to open, I go to slide through but something is holding me back. I try again, grabbing onto the inner-handle with my left hand to push myself through, but I’m tugged in the other direction. It’s frustrating because I know Lance wants to help me with whatever it is. He isn’t, because he knows I won’t let him, but he wants to, and I’m angry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I realize quickly that my carabiner that tethers me to the station got caught on the net when it deployed. I reach down to yank at the net, and I think my body is frustrated too, because I yank way too hard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything in space takes more effort. Everything you do, every movement, is more exhausting than the last. And sometimes, you put a certain amount of force in, and it’s just too much. Sometimes, you fear doing a difficult action three times, so you decide to do it once but with the combined force of three individual actions. And sometimes that will dislodge your carabiner, detach you from your tether, and send you tumbling into the vastness of space. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m spinning so fast, that Lance’s scream almost instantly makes me vomit. When your senses are disoriented, when you don’t know up from down, when you start to feel no concept of yourself and your relative placement, any particularly harsh stimulus can be nauseating. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know Lance is just scared. We haven’t had an incident like this at all yet. I’m not mad. I’m just spinning out into space, detached from my vehicle, on the verge of throwing up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If I tried to use my propellant now, I would only increase the celerity of my rotation and probably send me flying in a direction I don’t want. I know Lance is using his, which I’m sure is hard for him. But he sees this as an emergency, so maybe not. Of course, I don’t see him, but I hear him. He sounds upset, and he’s not the one holding back puke. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s not that much room in a space helmet. There’s barely enough room for the oxygen, and out here you obviously need all you can get. So I know my helmet certainly does not have room for any food I ate last night. And even as Lance will eventually grab me and get me back in the vehicle, depending on how much comes up, it could kill me anyway. It’s easily aspirated within the confines of my helmet, and lungs don’t tend to fare well with vomit in them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The difficult part is stabilizing me. There’s virtually no static in my helmet as Lance talks, so I know he’s close. But since I was disconnected at my carabiner, there’s no tether for him to grab onto. And presumably, he would have had to detach from the comet as well in order to reach me, so there’s no easy way to do this. Grabbing onto me will send him into orbit too. Once you start spiraling in space, you don’t stop. Your momentum is not inhibited by air resistance. There are a lot of things we can’t rely on right now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As the pace of my respiration increases, my oxygen levels drop. I know this. I know this because this is something we have to learn, and I also can’t make out a single thing Lance is saying to me. I can hear his tone, but his words sound like chicken noodle soup. I know Lance is talking to me at least, because his words are pointed. He’s not blabbering in panic. I can tell that much. He’s probably telling me firmly to calm down, because I’m using too much oxygen and my suit can’t support it. He’s telling me doctor things that I already know, that I can’t even hear him say, but I know he’s saying it, and I know I’m not listening. My helmet is fogging up, and my head feels like stone, and my throat feels like acid and I hope if I breathe hard enough, it will stop feeling like that. At this point, I don’t even feel the spinning anymore. It’s not like the Sandra Bullock POV in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gravity. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I don’t have a reference point of any big blue marble. I’m spinning, and I know this, because I’m in pain, but I can’t see the universe spinning in front of me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s all black. No matter what way you look at it, it’s black. At least I know I’m facing in towards our solar system, because otherwise it would look more like a bunch of comets. In that case I would definitely know I was spinning. But there’s nothing in front of me. There can be no up or down, there can be no left and right. The only way we determine that is by looking at other things in our vicinity. But there is nothing there. Maybe that’s why I’m breathing so hard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In a split second I am stopped by two hands wrapping around my wrists firmly, which throws  my legs out to the side and yanks the body attached to those hands. But then, I see the stars. I’m not spinning anymore. When my heart rate slows, I realize he used his propellers to counteract the inertia of my rotation. When he grabbed onto me, he made sure that wherever I pulled us, he would pull us the other way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lance has let go of one of my wrists and is reaching out for the comet station which I realize is now in front of me. I love that comet. Lance is still firmly holding onto me, and he is able to maneuver us in a way so that the impact of coming into raw contact with the station doesn’t bump me too hard. Regardless, I feel bile rise in my throat. I shut my eyes tightly, willing it all to subside, but it can’t. Willing or not, my dinner is not going to stay in my stomach any longer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hear a loud electronic bleat, a hissing noise, and then Lance is over me yanking off my helmet the second we’re safe, right when it all comes violently out of my mouth. My gut clenches and more pours out onto the ground in waves. There is something heinously disgusting yet blissful about this kind of release. I feel better after a few minutes. Yes, it’s because I got that out of my system, and I’m not dead and floating aimlessly through space. But there’s also something rubbing on my back in a methodical motion, and my whole body courses with repulsive warmth that nearly sends me to flight. I jerk up and see Lance above my hunched body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes are red, but I don’t see any tears. He’s breathing normally for the most part, and I know that’s because he’s trained in this. Well, at least the vomit part. And the emergent medical trauma part. Part of me feels like that fact gives me leave to panic, because he’s the one who’s trained to be strong, and I’m the patient here. I should get to cry and shake and vomit all I want. He can be the rational adult, and I can be dramatic. But I’m safe. I’m alive. I don’t know why I feel the need to release like that. Nothing happened. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His red eyes are boring into me with a faint sense of pity, so I look away. His arm is extended, and I realize he was the thing I felt. His hand was on my back, rubbing me as I disgorged. His hand </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> on my back, still dragging along my spine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good thing I was waiting for you out there.” Lance says softly, popping half a smirk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was waiting for me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I jump to my feet, too quickly, and my vision fills with fuzzy black blotches. I can feel Lance join me erected, though. He’s an inch taller, and that bothers me especially. I’m pulling off my suit without thinking about it, rapidly, because I feel feverish and overstimulated and I need to get it the fuck off of me as soon as possible. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” Lance’s voice makes me grind my teeth together. I’m terrified, and beyond irate, and I don't exactly know why.  I need to get the fuck out of here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah I’m fine, thanks.” And then I’m hopping out of my last pant leg and out of the dock, pushing myself past the commons and into my room, slamming my hand against the wall which slides my door shut, not quick enough. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>zoo wee mama!<br/>i hope you enjoyed this so far!<br/>please leave a comment hearing your thoughts always makes me smile supah big!</p><p>my voltron/she-ra/bnha twitter is @bakvgu and my main/political twitter @eatheriches if you want to chat :) </p><p>&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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